Sunday, September 24, 2006
No Cells During the Service, Please
I was sitting in church when I heard the familiar chime that signals a new text message on my cell phone. Embarrassed, I rifled through my bag to turn off my phone that I thought I had left in my car. I couldn’t find it. “Maybe it wasn’t my phone,” I thought, relieved.
A few minutes later my son joined me on the pew. We both heard the very audible, and very near, cell phone beep this time. I urgently searched my bag again, nervously aware that the “new message alert” would continue beeping every five minutes or so, if I didn’t turn the phone off.
I rummaged through papers and pamphlets, manuals, books, and music, letters and pictures—but no phone. My son exasperatedly began looking through the bag too. “It’s not in there,” he whispered. “Is it on the bench, or in your scriptures?” I shook my head anxiously. I surreptitiously looked at the families on the benches in back, and in front of me to see if they were the cell phone culprits. No cell phone was in sight among them, and no one looked agitated like I was. I concluded it must be my phone.
I couldn’t bear to hear the mortifying beep again, so I took my valise and left the chapel, planning to dump its entire contents in order to find the offending phone. But first, I decided to check my car. And that’s exactly where I found my phone. It was not my phone that had disrupted church after all.
I was almost as embarrassed to return back to my seat, as I had been when I had originally thought it was I who had violated cell phone, and church, etiquette. On future Sundays, I’ll check twice to make sure my cell phone stays in the car, and doesn’t come into the church. A cell phone is a wonderful tool, but the only long distance communication I’ll be doing in church is with God. And I don’t need a cell phone for that.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Ich Bin Mude
“Bist du mude?”
“Ja.”
Those were the last two lines of the very first German dialog that I memorized many years ago in German I, and recently I’ve found myself muttering them frequently.
Translation:
“Are you tired?”
“Yes.”
Yesterday as I ran several miles in the predawn darkness I saw a sign that I had not ever seen before. It designated a right turn to the
The marathon is two and a half weeks away, and I’m more than ready for “tapering”—the time of decreasing one’s mileage before a race. I have 22 miles I still need to complete this week, but next week there is a big drop—only 24 total! Yippee! And the final week: a mere 10 miles. Well that is, only 10 before I run the actual 26.2 miles all at once at the end of that week.
I’m nervous. Even though I’ve done this successfully before, each year brings new challenges and doubts. Sometimes I wonder why I’m doing it at all. Do I think I’m some kind of Wunderkind?! Maybe I’m too old to be running around like this…
I went to Natalie’s (Morales, of The Today Show) blog for a little inspiration. She is trying to qualify for the Boston Marathon in her upcoming marathon, and needs a
All right then. I’ve been through childbirth, AND I've been through several marathons. I’m tough. I’ll finish out this training with determination, optimism, and confidence. Ja, ich bin mude jetzt. But I’m imagining how wunderbar it will be when I run through that finish line.
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
Disingenuous
Take for example my three recent encounters with my neighbors. Yes, the negligent neighbors with the dastardly dogs. I think it’s safe to say that my feelings for the dogs have somewhat transferred to their owners. Usually this is not a problem, because I almost never see or talk to them. (At least not to their faces; I berate them furiously under my breath whenever I hear the dogs barking, and barking….) Only occasionally do I see the neighbors pass by in their car, or catch a glimpse of them entering their house.
So then is it mere coincidence that in the week since I wrote The Hounds from Hell blog that I’ve actually spoken to Mr. Bad-Dogs twice, and Mrs. Bad-Dogs once??! I was terse, but polite, and never confronted them about their animals.
The first incident was in Wal-Mart, when Mr. Bad-Dogs approached us with a hillbilly grin and an effusive, “Hey Neighbors!” as though we were actually friends. My husband and I smiled wanly and listened incredulously as Mr. Bad-Dogs bragged about how his dogs had killed a skunk in their backyard. Unbelievable. But neither I nor my husband took the initiative to castigate him for the dogs’ intolerable barking which we suffer nearly daily.
Then I saw Mr. and Mrs. Bad-Dogs at the gym where I work, each on separate occasions. Again, I feigned politeness, and engaged in the common courtesies of inquiring as to their welfare. Still, I didn’t bring up the subject of the dogs.
Why didn’t I ream them out with a vituperative diatribe that would send them running with their tails between their legs?! Or at the very least, make a subtly snide, or catty remark disclosing my indignation about their dogs? I wonder how I could have been so fraudulently friendly, so insincerely sociable.
I guess I really am disingenuous, or maybe just too nice.
Friday, September 08, 2006
The Hounds from Hell
Joe, Ozzie, and Randall. Innocent enough names, right? Like maybe they could be the names of cute, albeit playfully mischievous, kids in a Spanky and Our Gang-type neighborhood club. If only that were the case, the Olympus Hills residents might indulgently accept the behavior of these three males. Well, the bearers of these names are our neighbors, but they are not human. Meet The Hounds from Hell in the accompanying video.
The humans who own these cursed canines seemed like nice people when they moved in next door about four years ago. But it soon became apparent to us that we would never be good friends, because their demonic dogs were hell-bent on destroying the peace and serenity of our happy home.
Beelzebub’s beasts bark at anything and everything: a passing car, an elderly couple on an evening walk, birds flying overhead, their own shadows, the wind blowing tree leaves, a circling airplane, a light turning on at night, a 2-year old playing in her yard across the street, a harmless woman videotaping them. It is not just simple territorial-defending-my-property-warning barking; these cloven-footed curs can bark on and on for hours.
If we step out on our back deck, the mangy mongrels charge the chain-link fence, and commence their non-stop snarling, growling, salivating, and barking. If we adjust our sprinkler system, they charge the chain-link fence, and commence their non-stop snarling, growling, salivating, and barking. If we weed or water our garden, they charge the chain-link fence, and…well, you get the picture, and if you don’t, just watch the video again.
My husband, normally a dog-lover by nature, describes them as miserable wastes of amino acid, and calls them the BDD—Brain Dead Dogs. “If after four years, and hundreds of incidents, they haven’t realized that it is a normal, and a non-threatening event for us to be in our backyard, they are incapable of learning. I conclude that they are brain-dead,” he pronounced wryly. More evidence of their diminished capacity is the fact that he has used the sprinklers and garden hose on them frequently for some operant conditioning, and they still return to the fence time after time with the same ill behavior.
It is a dog-gone shame, and extremely irritating, that our neighbors seem unaware of how galling their pets are, and in fact, treat them like they are adorable lapdogs that should be spoiled and pampered. It annoys me unbearably when the neighbors tie jaunty bandanas around the dogs’ necks, as though they are cute and charming pups. ARRGGGHHH!
We’ve suggested politely to our neighbors several times that their dogs need to be controlled. They’ve responded by occasionally yelling at the dogs to “Knock it off!” or by temporarily taking them into the house, or into the garage at night. As much as I despise these detestable dogs, I realize that their owners are truly the guilty parties. I find it highly irresponsible that they refuse to train their pets to behave appropriately, and that because of their negligence, our neighborhood is definitely going to the dogs.
Sunday, September 03, 2006
Nielsen Nuisance
I was indignant when I saw the packet in the mailbox. “What?! They are not even asking us if we will participate? They are demanding?!” I marched into the house, and self-righteously showed my husband the Nielsen TV ratings packet. “Look at this. Just because we’ve done it before…how many times…two….three? They think we are now beholden to complete their survey whenever they feel like sending it to us!”
“I told them on the phone that we’d do it.” My husband didn’t even look up as he replied to my ranting. My jaw dropped as I rolled my eyes and sighed long-sufferingly. “All right…all right… Then YOU are going to have to fill it out.”
Those sneaky Nielsens. If you are ambivalent about keeping their television log for a week, they cunningly send you on a guilt trip, or an ego trip, until they gain your consent. What?! You don’t feel privileged to be one of the elite few chosen, out of the millions possible, to participate? And how could you pass up the opportunity to make a difference in the television industry, by helping form the ratings that actually make or break the shows that all
After you’ve been sucked in, and it’s too late to back out, (since you’ve spent the measly ONE DOLLAR BILL that they send you as an incentive to complete the project—are they SERIOUS??! That’s insulting!) you begin to realize that this is not really your chance to make a difference. It’s the Nielsens’ chance to be a nuisance. They insist that you fill out their TV logs, or diaries, as they call them, with painstaking detail—what family member of what sex and what age and what education level, watched what TV in which room on what channel for how long. (I think there might even be a column that asks you to list what food you snacked on while you watched; maybe that statistic is for “The Biggest Loser” or something?!)
When we had filled out the diaries a few years ago, I religiously followed their directions, and nagged my family until we logged every last minute of TV watched, from Nova (my husband) to Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (younger sons). But this year I was rebellious. I didn’t want to be helpful. In fact, I had the urge to poison the pot.
One of the Nielsen rules requires recording television programs in the log if a family member watches for 5 minutes or longer. On one occasion I watched nearly 45 minutes of TV, but watched just less than 5 minutes on each of about nine different channels, thus negating the obligation to write down any of it! I felt so powerful. And on Saturday morning, I watched kids’ shows: “Phil of the Future” and “Trading Spaces: Boys vs Girls”. “This will really skew the results,” I snickered. Finally, I purposely didn’t watch several programs that I might normally watch, just because I didn’t want to trouble myself to keep track of them. My behavior was as un-American as the Black Sox Baseball scandal. Say it ain’t so, Cyppy!
Maybe during our Nielsen week I should have stuck to my regular viewing habits; maybe I should have studiously recorded everything that I watched; and maybe I should have played fairly by the Nielsen rules. But next time, I won’t let the Nielsens connive or bully us into servitude for a week. We’ve done our patriotic duty in the vast wasteland enough times. I will make my statement to the television industry by simply turning off the television and not watching at all.
